"Any thing!" answered the parson; "better donate it away to some poor man"—
"Ah! Misty Posson Jone', dat is w'at I want. You los' five hondred dollar'—'twas me fault."
"No, it wa'n't, Jools."
"Mais, it was!"
"No!"
"It was me fault! I swear it was me fault! Mais, here is five hondred dollar'; I wish you shall take it. Here! I don't got no use for money.—Oh, my faith! Posson Jone', you must not begin to cry some more."
Parson Jones was choked with tears. When he found voice he said:
"O Jools, Jools, Jools! my pore, noble, dear, misguidened friend! ef you hed of hed a Christian raisin'! May the Lord show you your errors better'n I kin, and bless you for your good intentions—oh, no! I cayn't touch that money with a ten-foot pole; it wa'n't rightly got; you must really excuse me, my dear friend, but I cayn't touch it."
St.-Ange was petrified.
"Good-by, dear Jools," continued the parson. "I'm in the Lord's haynds, and he's very merciful, which I hope and trust you'll find it out. Good-by!"—the schooner swang slowly off before the breeze—"good-by!"